Intravenous
by BerLina
Summary: The only thing he could compare it to was being high. He had long ago given up on ever feeling like it again. - A sudden change in their dynamic makes Sherlock question everything. Post-S1. Joanlock.
1. Everything will change

The first time he kissed her, it was for purely investigative reasons. He was a curious man with many interests, who hated to be kept wondering about things without a way of coming to a definite answer. He had often suspected that Watson would be a good kisser, but alas - he had never known for sure.

The occasion followed a lesson in deductive reasoning concerning the physical telltales of lying that he had insisted Watson endure, late on a Thursday night. He had visibly surprised her by offering up more than just one true information about himself and his past that had been formerly unknown to her. She in turn had surprised him by accurately identifying 19 out of his 20 lies.

The only one she was unable to spot had been about his dislike for Gouda cheese. He had to admit that perhaps his hatred for the dairy produce was not strong enough to register very accurately on his face.

Either way, the little exercise had put himself in the unique position of staring straight into her face for over an hour. He had watched as every correct guess had brought a glint to her dark mahogany eyes, every fleeting indignation had made her muscles twitch and every surprised inhale had flared her nostrils. Although they had lived under the same roof for some time now and had been in constant close contact, he still managed to find out new things about her every once in a while. Now he couldn't help but pay close attention to the remarkable features of her skull, the soft line of her eyebrows, the sharp jut of her cheekbones and the striking arc of her lips.

As a highly logical and educated man, he did not find it hard to admit that she was beautiful. Despite the slight cross of her eyes and the asymmetry of her jawbone, she could quite easily be described as one of the most attractive women he had ever crossed paths with. And so reason followed that he needed to eventually apply his deductive skills to his own bodily reaction to her stunning outward appearance. He was quite certain that he would be aroused by her, if he allowed himself the sentiment. He did not think of it as shallow - in fact, he thought human sexuality to be one of the most intriguing studies of all. Including and especially regarding, of course, his own.

It was not much of a move at all. They were seated face to face in the kitchen of their shared brownstone, their knees touching, his hands placed loosely on his own thighs while hers gripped the sides of her wooden chair, leaning in as far as she could in order to get a read on him. His height advantage allowed him the necessary radius so that all he needed to do was close the gap.

He believed that you did not need to be a highly intelligent and thouroughly educated investigator to deduce that the kiss surprised her. He kept his eyes open to observe all the parts of her face and physique he possibly could. If he had thought about this before, it would have occurred to him to capture the scene on video or hang a mirror in the adequate spot, so that he could examine this case study from all angles. As it was a rather spontaneous decision, he had no alternate mechanisms to assist him.

Her eyebrows lifted, her eyelids fluttering with rapid blinks, her breathing momentarily stopping in the midst of an inhale when his mouth met hers. Her left hand lifted off the chair, as if reaching for him - whether to stop him or to pull him closer, he had yet to deduce. However, before she performed either action, the hand dropped down again. Maybe it was because she had gotten used to his surreal excercises and sudden mood swings and wanted to indulge him, maybe because she had a great deal of self control, or perhaps even because she did, as a matter of fact, enjoy the kiss. He took note of all three possibilities and moved on to his next clue.

He knew that she could - and more importantly, would - stop him immediately if she wanted to terminate the event. He would never forcefully or manipulatively coerce someone into such an inherently intimate and potentially sexual behavior as a kiss, even if merely for observational practices. If she made the slightest indication whatsoever that she wished to abort the maneuver, his personal and professional ethics - as well as what little he believed to have of what other people might call a 'good conscience' - dictated that he must retreat immediately.

She did not, however, employ such a move.

Instead, he concluded confidently that the act physically - and quite possibly mentally - pleased her. Watson's eyes closed and the pressure against Sherlock's lips increased minimally. Her eyebrows dropped back down, almost to their relaxed state. Her breathing, however, stayed uneven and erratic, her heart clearly beating faster than her usual pulse rate. Sherlock was quite satisfied with the deductions so far. He had expected very similar consequences beforehand.

So far, all that had been touching were their lips, parts of their noses and the cotton-clad fronts of their knees. Sherlock was an expert in conducting experiments. He knew that the number of variables needed to be reduced in order to gain accurate results. It also offered him the opportunity to add to and thereby change the orginal setup and monitor their responses.

He started by letting his right hand rest lightly on her shoulder. Her reaction was immediate and very enlightening. A soft moan escaped her lips, which then parted ever so slightly, turning the mere pressing-of-mouths into a far more active kissing business. He deviated from the first probing contact further by sliding his hand slowly up her neck. He resided there for long enough to take her pulse, noticing his own picking up speed as well, before scraping his fingers tenderly up into the soft hair at her nape.

His assistant-slash-companion rewarded him with a decidedly hot flick of her tongue against his that he found himself describing in his head as 'lasting not nearly long enough'.

It was then that Sherlock realized that he had largely underestimated his own response to the whole ordeal. Taking into account her attractiveness, her likeable personality, her well-maintained constitution (concerning her physical fitness and self-care, mostly in the form of deodorant, perfume, body lotion, hydrating water intake, mouthwash etc.) and their friendly companionship, he had been fairly certain that he would know exactly what to expect.

He had been off by several units of measurement.

He found that a mere short probe of her was not nearly satisfactory. His next kiss was much deeper and almost visceral, involving the bite of his teeth and the sweep of his tongue. Her palm pressed against his chest, not to push him away, but to balance herself as she leaned in even closer. She was very responsive to his ministrations and in turn his palms were getting warm with heightened blood circulation and added perspiration. His breath tended to stutter every time her tongue reached out or her lips changed the angle.

Frissions of pleasure raced down his spine and directly into his groin, hormones like dopamine and adrenaline - the human body's very own drugs - bombarded his system. Colorful flashes danced behind his eyelids, which he hadn't even realized were closed. He opened them again in hope that it would calm the storm inside of him, but her sight had quite the opposite effect. By now, a pink flush covered her cheeks and parts of her neck. Her freckles hypnotised him, the scent of her white tea perfume rose through his flared nostrils straight into his brain. His heart rate and temperature increase were well above what he would normally experience with one of his other female 'companions'.

The only thing he could compare it to was, well, being high. And in the echo of his own rushing mind, he had to admit that he had missed this feeling - the mind-numbing and sensitizing sizzle of a shoot-up. He had long ago given up on ever feeling like it again.


	2. Nothing stays the same

He kissed her out of nowhere. One minute he was testing her ability to spot his lies, the next his lips were pressed to hers. She wondered if this was just another one of his tests. For a brief moment she thought about pushing him away, yelling at him and demanding an explanation, but then she realized that whatever the reasons might be - she might not get this chance again. When his fingers brushed her clavicle, she heard a small moan echo in her ears. It took her a moment to realize that she had been the one to produce the sound.

It wasn't as if she had never thought about this - she definitely had, more than once. But even in her wildest fantasies, her fingers curled in the sheets and her tongue pressed tight into her teeth, she had never honestly believed that it could come true. That is - if this was not just another one of his unorthodox tests.  
She had considered for a while that he was a person who, due to his extraordinary intellect and complex unwonted behavior (which was a nice way to phrase 'social ineptitude'), would probably never be able to maintain a meaningful romantic relationship with another person. However, she had never doubted that he was capable of deep feelings - it had been evident in the way he cared not just about Irene (however misled those emotions had been) but also about his friends - whether he liked to admit it or not. The sexual components of his love life had been even easier to analyse. In fact, he had flaunted his sexuality in front of her from the first day on - and even though he'd played it off as a physical necessity, she knew as a doctor and an open-minded woman that there were many easier and cheaper methods to control his bodily needs if he did, in fact, not find any pleasure and stimulation in sexual intercourse. The way he had referred to sex with Irene - the woman he had believed Moriarty to be, before the truth had been revealed - had proven to her that if the circumstances were right, Sherlock could very well have a happy and fulfilling relationship just like anybody else.

It stood to reason that, although he would very much like everyone else to believe it, Sherlock Holmes was not a machine.  
Neither was Joan Watson.

When his fingers slid into her hair and held her loosely, she brought their chaste kiss to the next level. And in the midst of the fireworks that followed the quick touch of their tongues and lit her body and mind ablaze, she realized that he was holding back. If he hadn't been the one to start the kiss, she might have questioned whether he was rejecting her. And if she didn't know Sherlock better than that, she would have guessed that he was scared. He was clearly very affected by the kiss. The veins of his wrist pulsed heavily against her neck, his breathing speaking volumes to her newly fine-tuned mind. But it was more than just a physical reaction based on some sort of primitive attraction.  
He held her in a way that allowed her (and him) to drop out at any moment, but the rest of his body communicated that he clearly did not want that to happen. He was letting her lead them where she wanted to go, careful and deliberate in his movements, as if he could spook her - or lose control. She slid her palm above his heart, testing her hypothesis.  
It jumped under her palm.

The next seconds were a pleasant blur. Something snapped inside him as he let go, kissing her deeper and more passionately, scraping at her lips with his teeth. Her eyes closed as his short nails dug half-moons into her scalp, his other hand finding her thigh in an almost bruising grip. She gasped when the deep rumble of a moan vibrated from his rib cage to hers. She pressed closer, first using the hand against his chest to balance herself, then throwing her other arm around his neck.  
She let her breath mingle with his as she opened her eyes without parting their mouths. His pupils were wide and bottomless, almost like those of an addict. Their lashes brushed just so.

He was the one who ducked his head away at last. His face was flushed, his chest heaving and fluttering under her hand. Suddenly he stared up at her, and this time she was the one who held her breath. She could not get a read on him.  
"I don't want to stop" he said, his words contrasting heavily with his actions as he drew his hand out of her hair. With his back upright, their distance increased to a point where Watson could no longer hold on to him. It seemed to cost him almost physical strength to loosen his grip on her thigh.  
'Then don't' she wanted to answer, but could not find the words.  
"I don't want to stop" he repeated and ran his fingers through his always ruffled hair. He looked at her as if in pain, all the facial muscles contracted, the big vein on his temple straining visibly against his skin. She could only imagine that her face looked like the polar opposite; utterly relaxed and thoroughly kissed, her skin reddened from his scruffy beard and the heat that pooled low in her belly.

Without another word, he got up from the chair, their knees pressing uncomfortably tight together for a moment before he pushed back, the chair legs scraping against the old hardwood floor. She reached out and managed to brush his upper thigh as he jerked away, making him wince as if she'd given him an electric shock.  
"Sherlock!" she called after him, but he did not turn around. He grabbed his coat without slowing and was out of the door before Joan had gotten up. "You're in sweatpants," she chastised the wooden door quietly, as if it would carry her message to him.


	3. All that you rely on

He ran four blocks before he slowed down to a brisk walk. He was sure she hadn't followed, but nonetheless he didn't turn around. It was raining heavily, the sky dark and growling, befitting his mood. He didn't care about his soaked collar or his cold ears. If he was going to get sick, that was that.

Normally this sort of situation would drive him upstairs to the apiary to brood, but he felt that any increase in distance between him and Joan Watson could only be beneficial. He hadn't realized he was walking towards Alfredo's flat until he'd rounded the corner and almost run into the man himself. It was only logical that his subconscious had led him this way, since this seemed to be a matter of sobriety.

"Sherlock!" his sponsor greeted him, pleasantly surprised. "What are you doing here?"

"I fear I have bad news, Alfredo. Your opinion on a personal matter is much needed" he said, trying to portray his urgency with a clipped movement of his head in the direction of the man's apartment.

"Of course, let's go inside." Alfredo turned on his heel, flipping the hood of his padded jacket up against the wind.

"I am not keeping you from an important errand, I hope," said Sherlock, letting his friend lead him down the street and up the short flight of stairs.

"It's two in the morning, dude." Then, as an afterthought: "Did you take something?"

Sherlock seemed genuinely surprised. He hadn't realized the time. "Meeting a woman, then. I see. You should text her that you will be late, although I can assure you this will not take long."

As Alfredo unlocked his front door, he was already pulling out his phone to do as had been suggested. Sherlock took a mental note of the lock screen, showing his sponsor in a laughing embrace with a woman called Lisa.

"You didn't answer my question," the younger man insisted, slowly getting worried that Sherlock might have come to him because of a relapse. "What are you wearing, anyway?"

Sherlock glanced down at his sweatpants and shrugged his shoulders. "Is your lady friend aware that you are consorting with another woman?" he asked a question of his own, his face full of unjudging curiosity as he entered the small apartment.

"Hey, whoa, don't talk to me like that! I'm doing no such thing!" Alfredo said, adjusting his wet snap-back. Sherlock quietly pointed to the purple charger next to the bowl of keys in the entry hall. It was emblazoned with an 'R.S.', clearly neither Alfredo's nor a belonging of the aforementioned Lisa.

"My cousin stayed here last weekend." Alfredo explained as he switched the light on in his small living room.

"Ah."

"You went from a charger to cheating on my girl?"

He shrugged his shoulders again, and stored the gathered information away for later analysis.

"What is this about, Sherlock?"

The man in question remained quiet for a second, his trademark frown in place as he checked out the apartment with his trained, observant gaze.  
"It is of the 'lady friend' variety," he relayed after a moment of rolling the words around in his mouth, seeing how they fit.

"Ooh la la," cajoled Alfredo and offered his friend a fist bump. Sherlock did not reciprocate.

"Have you ever found yourself comparing a woman to a drug?" Sherlock asked, his face tight and serious.

"Are you addicted to sex?" Alfredo answered after a short silence. Sherlock shook his head abruptly and sat down on the slightly sticky couch. He started examining the takeout leftovers in the green cracks of the fabric. "Do you expect me to just guess what this is about?" Alfredo asked as he settled in the opposite chair. Sherlock's face turned dark.

"I am having a..." He stalled. "A reaction," he said with some difficulty.

"To a woman?"

Sherlock nodded.

"What kind of a reaction?"

Sherlock's eyes fixed on a spot in the dark corner of the room, blinking heavily. His mouth opened, quivering, and closed again. He swallowed.  
"It goes beyond the physiological," he whispered at last, "and certainly beyond the logical."

Alfredo grinned. "Oh Sherlock, my man, have you never been in love before?"

"I don't think I quite believe in the concept" Sherlock said sourly, dreading to be reminded of Irene and the one true love he thought he'd had. The revelation of her betrayal had hurt him more than he'd let on. He was well aware that Joan had been right next to him during his first - nearly physical and certainly visible - reaction to Irene's unexpected return from the dead. And yet, in the aftermath, he had pretended that the reveal of her true nature had made him more focussed, clearer. It had done nothing of the sort. He was post-love, he had to remind himself. Liberation was all he felt.

And yet, no matter how carefully he willed himself to remain untouched, he could not 'unfeel' what he had felt. Joan Watson was an entirely different person than Irene Adler, and certainly different than Jamie Moriarty - but he didn't care to relive his experience with the latter, and didn't trust the authenticity of even one minute of his relationship with the former. Moreover, he didn't think he would quite survive falling in love again.

"That's a shame" Alfredo said and waited for his friend to elaborate on his situation. Sherlock went from picking the dirty food out of the couch to flexing his knuckles, his muscle memory recalling Paganini as he stared into the distance. Alfredo waited him out, knowing there was no use in pushing.

"If I were indeed…" he started but trailed off. 'Post-love, post-love' it echoed in his head. "Let's just say, hypothetically…"

His eyebrows scrunched up as he failed to form the words, his muscles twitching, adam's apple working soundlessly. Alfredo sighed.

"If you had fallen in love…?" he started, trying to help. He wasn't surprised that it was so hard for Sherlock to articulate his feelings.

"How would I fall out?" Sherlock said without hesitance.

* * *

I know, I know, you're all disappointed because there was no kissing in this chapter. Well, there might not be any of that for a couple of chapters more, before our dear Watson and Sherlock figure this whole thing out. I warned you in the beginning that this might be a casefic of sorts... But don't despair, at some point you'll get the smooching you're all looking for. ;)

Thank you to all of the wonderful people who added this little dabble to their favorites, and thanks to the dear Lu for proof-reading and encouragement!

Much Love,  
Lina


	4. And all that you can fake

"Up, up, Watson! We've got a case!"

His voice cut through thick layers of pillows and sleep. It took her a second to orient herself, her body heavy but drawn in by his voice and upright in a tangle of sheets before she remembered last night's events.

Oh. Last night.

He'd kissed her, then left without an explanation. He'd only returned in the early morning - she'd been waiting for the telltale sounds of his feet on the stairs, curled up in bed, a book about seismologic patterns long forgotten in her lap, the bedside lamp still burning. She'd hoped that he would see the light shine through the gap under her door and come in with answers to her many questions, but of course he hadn't.

"Stop daydreaming, Doctor, we've no time to spare!"

Doctor? She threw him a look she hoped was intimidating, or at the least a bit irritating - but then again, when was Sherlock ever intimidated?

"It's quite cold outside, so I suggest a long-sleeved option, maybe that scarlet sweater you bought last month? Don't wear the yellow one, it makes your skin look pasty."

Before she'd had the chance to speak even one word in reply, he'd thrown the aforementioned piece of clothing onto her bed and left the room. Great, she thought to herself, her feet hitting the cold floor as she flung her sleep-shirt over her head. Sherlock was giving her fashion advice now? At least he hadn't rifled through her underwear again.

Dressing quickly, she ran after him, her hand still searching for the correct hole in her sweater as she rumbled down the staircase. "Wait, so that's it?" she called after him, his back turned to her in the kitchen.

"_That_ and_ It_ being what exactly?" he replied, finishing off a mug of coffee. He hadn't poured one for her, so she did it herself.

"We're not going to talk about what happened last night?" she said and gulped down the hot liquid so quickly that it burned her throat.

"It was a test," he answered, rocking back on his heels in that way that was typical for him - impatient, always in motion, constantly ready for a fight-or-flight response. The mug sank from her lips.

"It yielded the results that I was interested in and has therefore served and fulfilled its purpose. There is no need to discuss it further," he explained and turned towards the sink. For a moment she was dumbstruck.

"Yielded-" She swallowed hard as she stumbled over her own thoughts. "The results?"

He started carrying stacked up cereal bowls from the table to the faucet, avoiding her eyes in the most nonchalant way he could muster. He was a good liar, but she'd been near him long enough to know most of his tells.

"You kissed me, Sherlock, and it didn't feel like a test to me," she said, standing in the kitchen in front of him with her feet rooted to the hardwood floor. The dishes clinked loudly as they dropped into the sink. "You said you didn't want to stop" she continued, proud of the fact that her voice was steady. She took an experimental step in his direction. "We kissed and-"

"And there is no need to discuss it further, Dr. Watson!" he cut her off, the use of her title stopping her cold in her tracks. His eyes held a conviction that allowed for no argument, his voice firm and unrelenting. She stared him down, her jaw set and eyebrows drawn. After a moment, he looked at his feet and up again, his face neutral as their gazes met a second time.

"You have seven minutes to brush your teeth and get your things" he spoke, wiping away all the recent events with an act of sheer willpower, as he so often did. "I'll be waiting at the door" he said and turned back to the dishes.

She had no doubt that he would.

—

She stood over the distorted body of a young woman, crushed under a cristalline chandelier, as she thought about his words. Had it all been a test? An experiment of some sort, like she'd feared at first? Hollow blue eyes stared back at her, giving no answer.

She could feel Sherlock at her left side, a presence like a fireplace, making itself known through the flickering impression of heat on her skin. It reminded her of the way his fingers had branded her neck, his lips burning hers, red explosions behind her eyelids. The reality in front of her faded, replaced by memories, overlapping with fantasies. His grip on her thigh, her thigh around his hip, the marks she would leave on his back. His hand in her hair, her hair on the pillow, his teeth down the opening of her shirt. Or maybe he would be gentler, take his time, a kiss to her shoulder and his thumbs on her hips, brushing slowly-

"Anything to add, Miss Watson?" Gregson cut through the haze that was making her blood rush through her body with more pressure than strictly necessary.

"I'm afraid she wasn't paying attention, Captain" Sherlock answered in her stead. She finally risked a glance at him, aware that her face might well be flushed. "I doubt she'll have anything to contribute, but I'll fill her in on the way to the precinct," he offered generously, throwing her a look full of something that she couldn't decipher.

Gregson lifted his eyebrow in her direction, silently asking her to speak for herself, but she could only shake her head. Sherlock was right, she had nothing to say at the moment. She turned her feeble attention back to the corpse, tried to remember the information that had trickled into her subconscious while her mind had been elsewhere, like Sherlock had taught her. Carter, Crafter… she couldn't even remember the victim's name.

"Watson!" her partner called for her, as if he was calling after a dog. She sighed and followed his silhouette through the magnificent archway of the penthouse. Canter - now she recalled the name. Leona Canter, heiress to Canter Holding Inc., 1.2 billion dollars in assets, plenty of motive.

"Keep up or I'll leave you behind" Sherlock admonished her impatiently, repeatedly punching the elevator button.

"I've got the car keys" she muttered, but hastened her steps nonetheless. She knew that he could hijack her car within seconds, and after the little sleep she'd had tonight, there was not enough energy left in her body to fight him.


	5. Will leave you in the morning--

He'd watched her sleep this morning. It hadn't been the first time and maybe wouldn't be the last, but it had certainly felt different from the many instances that had come before. He'd sat in the broad chair at the foot of her bed and watched the sheets rise and fall with every steady breath of hers, sliding his gaze along the contour of her jaw, the rosy line of her lips, the perfect curvature of her nose. He'd reminisced at the sweeping beauty of her lashes, the smooth fan of her dark hair contrasted against a stark white pillow. He'd sat this way for longer than he'd care to admit - watching, observing, counting her freckles and trying to determine what had changed about her that might have spurred this change in him.

Captain Gregson's call had come as a relief. He'd woken her up and tried to be as controlling and annoying as possible, leaving no doubt that he had moved on from last night's "experiment" and was as professional and unlikable as ever.

Of course that hadn't worked. He'd seen it in her eyes the exact moment she had remembered the kiss, her fingertips grazing her lips - "Stop daydreaming, Doctor!" he'd interrupted her, trying to bring as much distance as possible between himself and _Joan_, the woman he didn't want to stop kissing.

She'd confronted him in the kitchen, hastily dressed and lacking makeup, yet somehow more stunning than ever, demanding to talk about last night while choking on her too-hot coffee.

She intimidated him. Not with the looks she threw his way when she was mad, but with the ones she thought he wasn't aware of, shyness and vulnerability blinking through her put-on irritation. It managed to break through his carefully constructed indifference and stir the remnants of his humanity.

But he'd prepared for that moment, steeling himself, knowing her too well to hope that she would simply let it go. He'd worked on the exact wording for almost an hour last night - or this morning, rather. _It was a test that yielded the results I was interested in, and has therefore served its purpose._ That was it.

The words had stung her, but she hadn't bought them. He had the obnoxious feeling that he'd hurt himself more than he'd hurt her. He would have to do better next time.

* * *

At the crime scene, they made their rounds separately and without communication. It was a conscious choice on his part, contributing to the distance he so adamantly wanted to ensure between them. If everything could just go back to the way it had been before last night, they would both be better off, he kept telling himself. Watson didn't seem to mind, or at least didn't attempt to make contact with him, but when he'd completed his circle of the Canter penthouse, they were forced to stand next to each other again. The mere vicinity of her made his heart pump faster than it should, irritating him in a way that cemented itself in a clenched fist and a tightness in his jaw he couldn't really help.

She was wearing the scarlet sweater he'd laid out for her, and it fit her so beautifully that he wished he'd picked something less flattering. He made sure to keep his fist on the side unseen by her and forced himself to stop burning holes into the ground with his stare. A murder by falling chandelier was the task at hand - a most welcome distraction from all these peculiarly pesky little _emotions_.

Gregson rattled off the technical details of the murder while Sherlock added his own observations, building a case file in his head, a string of connections in a pool of information, possibilities and theories floating around in a formless, timeless space.

Leona Canter, 26, blonde and beautiful, a party girl of sorts… He could smell the remnants of alcohol in the room, as well as what was sure to be a man's cologne. Single according to her social media status, but definitely not lonely. A red lipstick mark on a tissue on the entrance table, two brands of cigarette ash on the balcony floor, glittering specks of blood on the dead woman's lips, scratch marks on the wall where a painting had been replaced recently, dust on the top rim of the crashed chandelier, unopened mail dated two weeks ago stacked up on a desk. All these things registered in Sherlock's eyes and nose and got filtered through his brain, stored in neat categories alongside the tremble of Joan's hand and the widening of her pupils, the quirk of Marcus Bell's eyebrow and the slight ache in Sherlock's left calf. He would make sense of it all later; for now he was just taking it in.

"Gunther James was the one who found her, he's been the family's butler for almost 50 years," Gregson informed him, his accent drawing out the words. "The ambulance just took him to the hospital. The man is 74 and in shock. I spoke to him when I got here - he was pale as a ghost and muttering like my grandmother."

"A butler," Bell mused, the two words filled with a whole lot of meaning, his judgement of the pompous family unspoken but clearly audible. As unprejudiced and open-minded as Detective Bell had proven to be, money - or more distinctly, lavish wealth - was still a sore spot.

"Anyway," Gregson continued, "He said he saw Miss Canter last night at around 9 pm, then found her like this at 8:15 this morning. The ME puts preliminary time of death between 6 and 8:15, but we won't have anything more concrete for another couple of hours. This leaves an awful lot of time unaccounted for." He tapped his pen against his notebook as he closed it. "Mr. James said nobody else left or entered the building during that time, but I obviously wouldn't take his word for it."

"Oh, I definitely wouldn't, Captain," Sherlock agreed. "There were at least two visitors here during the aforementioned time, one at night and one this morning, possibly our killer. I'm quite certain the coroner will find evidence that Miss Canter enjoyed an occasion of sexual intercourse shortly before her untimely death."

Bell threw him that exasperated look that meant he wouldn't believe him until he'd explained how he had come to this conclusion (and that he disapproved of his use of the words "sexual intercourse"), but Sherlock chose to ignore him for now. Instead, he focused on his assistant-slash-partner, who stared unblinking into the open eyes of the corpse, a slight blush covering her face as if she was thinking about something completely unrelated to the dead woman in front of her.

Captain Gregson must have followed his line of sight, because he called on his colleague to give her an opportunity to weigh in. Watson looked up as if caught in a moment of indecency, and Sherlock was quite sure, now more than ever, that she had been lost in thought. Putting together her physical clues with their morning's argument about last night's _incident_, he inferred that she was not just distracted, but... sexually aroused. By him.

A mixture of dread and excitement rolled through his body, his mouth falling open in an 'O' of mute surprise as her eyes caught his. He had to swallow around the sudden lump in his throat, averting his eyes. He explained to the Captain that his partner had been absent-minded and that he would bring her up to date during the ride back to the precinct, and even though there were details still unclear and arguments left to be explained, he went straight for the lift to leave at once.

Joan Watson was thinking about him, enjoying thoughts about him, sexual thoughts, _at an active crime scene_. He was no stranger to the unpredictable nature of lust, but this was more than he could currently focus on.

As he was angrily willing the lift to arrive faster, it occurred to him that Watson would need to join him if he was supposed to explain the case to her on their way to the precinct. For a moment he indulged in the possibility of leaving her here or opting to forego the precinct visit altogether, but he quickly dismissed the thoughts. It would be a childish maneuver, and Sherlock had no reason to behave childishly about this. They were both adults and this matter could be cleared up in a normal, civil conversation.

"Watson!" he bellowed and hoped that she, too, hated the way her name sounded in his mouth. Grinning mirthlessly to himself, he entered the lift. He would put this to rest once and for all.

* * *

_Author's Note: I'm really sorry that I haven't updated this since before Christmas, but the holidays were quite busy for me. I hope you all had a great start to the New Year and will give this story another chance! I'll try to post more regularly from now on._

_XXX, Lina_


	6. --but find you in the day

He was being impossible. She'd been wrong about having no energy left to fight him. As it turned out, she had all sorts of fight in her yet. They hadn't even been in the car for a full five minutes when she jabbed her hazard lights into blinking and drove her old Honda to the curb in the middle of downtown traffic.

"Out."

When he didn't react, she lunged across the console and leaned over his lap to push the passenger door open.

"Out!" she repeated, but his gaze remained firmly on her face, his look bewildered, hands clasped on his knees.

"Your inferiority-" he started up again.

"Stop."

"I was merely saying-"

"I know what you were saying and I'm pretty sure I know what was going to come next!" she snapped.

"Yggrasil" he said unfazed, remaining seated even as she resorted to physically pushing at his shoulder to get him to move.

"What?!"

"See, you _didn't_ know what I was going to say next!" he gloated. "I surprised you. You don't know me as well as you th-"

"You're right, I don't" she agreed, apparently much to his surprise. Her palm kept pressing hard into his side. "I have no clue why you are acting this way, belittling me and bossing me around. You've never had the most tact, but now you're being openly insulting."

She stopped pushing at his shoulder and slumped back in her seat. "I've known you to be cold at times, clinically heartless, even - but you've never been mean. You've never hurt me for the sake of hurting me."

"Until now" he pointed out, trying to trump her even when she was clawing at his decency as a human being. He was the only man she knew that could take an insult as a compliment.

"So you admit that I'm right" she said, briskly.

"Your inefficiency at crime scenes and your tendency to get too emotionally invested have long been bothering me. It had merely come the time that I decided to point them out."

"No" she rebuffed and killed the ignition, seeing as he didn't seem inclined to leave her vehicle anytime soon. "No, I don't believe that."

"Then you are naiver than I thought. Perhaps it is best that we move on from this arrangement and I reconsider your position as my partner. Clearly, last night's experiment has left you emotionally compromised-"

"Compromised?" she cut in, thinking that maybe her head had exploded and she was only imagining things. He turned away and looked idly at the sidewalk as if nothing was out of the ordinary.

"Did you notice the painting in the butler's office?" Sherlock asked, drumming his knuckles against the window pane. "Of course you didn't" he quipped, his consonants clipped and precise. "Now, if you would have paid attention, you'd have noticed the uneven markings-"

"Don't change the subject!" Joan insisted loudly, struggling to find her footing again, her eyebrows drawn and her hands shaking. She sighed in frustration. "You know what, you're right! I was distracted, okay? I wasn't at my best at the crime scene, and I know it. You don't have to throw it at my face like this!"

Sherlock finally looked back at her, his jaw clenched, forehead vein protruding.  
"Evidently I do, because you don't seem to take this seriously!"

"It was a mistake, okay?!" she pushed back. "The kiss, the experiment, whatever you want to call it! It was a mistake, is that what you want to hear?"

Her words sounded loud in the confined space of the car, as he let the silence stretch between them and turn meaningful.

All of a sudden she became aware of her surroundings and that they had been yelling at each other on the side of the road, the city traffic rushing beside them, her emergency lights on, her blinkers flashing and going click, click, click.

He said absolutely nothing in return, quietly fidgeting in his spot. Slowly and with great concentration, she turned the key in the ignition and listened to her engine stutter, roar, then die. Mortified, she tried again, pressing out a breath between her teeth when it finally caught on. With one hand on the steering wheel and the other on her gear shift, she closed her eyes for a moment and counted the seconds as she breathed in, held her breath, and eventually exhaled. She opened her eyes, switched the hazard lights off and her turn signal on, looked over her shoulder and eased the car back into traffic.

If she hadn't, she'd be forced to either punch him, kiss him, or cry - and she wasn't sure either were a very good idea right now.

* * *

The rest of the drive to the station was uncomfortably quiet. The crime scene was a blur in her head, her mind too preoccupied with touches and kisses and possibilities. And now this - this argument, this fight. Whatever hopes she'd had last night vanished for good, replaced by a heavy feeling in her stomach and a coppery taste in her mouth.

She was glad she had the rush hour traffic to focus on.

By the time they arrived at the precinct, her heart rate had returned to normal, although her mood was still at a low. They left the car without exchanging a glance, and she grabbed a coffee from the break room to alleviate the oncoming migraine. When she returned to the bullpen, Sherlock was in the middle of explaining a theory to Detective Bell.

"The man is 70 years old, Holmes" replied Bell with his typical mistrustful exasperation. "How the hell would he still be the one to move the chandelier around for the cleaners?"

"You would be quite surprised, Detective Bell" Sherlock insisted, his feet rolling back and forth on themselves as they did when he was getting impatient. "I have lived in accommodations such as the Canter's and I assure you, there is a perfectly fine way in which the man could have lowered the chandelier regularly for cleaning, and without much effort." His speech halted when he spotted Joan by his side, but carried on after a moment. "Hydraulics, or even a more rudimentary rolling system would do."

"Holmes is right" Captain Gregson called, on his way towards them from the office. Sherlock lifted his shoulders as if to say 'I told you so' and Joan averted her eyes, taking a sip of her coffee. It was hot, a bit too hot, but she welcomed the shock and so did the beginnings of her headache. "Security just confirmed the chandelier was connected to a hydraulic system that could be operated electronically" the captain continued. "The panel is in the adjacent room - which just so happens to be the butler's office - behind a painting, that's why we didn't find it. It's obviously not supposed to drop the chandelier completely, so it must have been tampered with. CSU is on it."

"So the butler could've done it" Bell reluctantly agreed.

"But the bigger question is 'why'?" Joan found herself saying; the first words she had spoken since their arrival.

"I believe he was about to be fired" said Sherlock. "Maybe he already had been. I noticed a stack of unopened and unsorted mail, a task that surely fell into the realm of Mr. James' duties."

"He had been working for the family for half a century and they were going to put him out on the street." Bell nodded in thoughtful consideration. "He had the motive, the means, and no alibi."

"But there's also the possibility that he is being framed" she interjected. "A crime like that, who do you look at first?"

Bell laughed and shook his head as he remarked "The butler."

"Precisely." Sherlock said, while turning on his heel and moving towards the elevator. "To the hospital, then!"

He clearly expected her to follow, but she remained by Bell's desk. She looked at him, and he looked back, giving her a small smile as he gathered up his coat once more. "I'll go with him," he told her softly. "You can stay here."

"Thank you" she mouthed before turning to Sherlock. "I would like to go through the financials and phone records of the victim. We'll be faster if we split up" she told him determinedly.

"Very well" Sherlock agreed, impatiently motioning for Bell to step into the elevator. The doors closed and then he was gone. Joan heaved a sigh.


End file.
